Excerpt & Giveaway: Never Loved by Charlotte Stein
Never
Loved
Dark Obsession # 1
Dark Obsession # 1
By:
Charlotte Stein
Releasing
July 21st, 2015
Loveswept
Blurb
Perfect
for fans of Abbi Glines, the first novel in the Dark Obsession series
tells the story of a beautiful wallflower who falls for a chiseled
street fighter—and learns just how dangerous love can be.
Beatrix
Becker spent most of her life under the thumb of her controlling,
abusive father. And now that she’s free and attending her dream
college, she has no idea how to act like the normal crowd: partying,
going on dates, even having a conversation. Then she meets Serge
Sorensen. Big and surly with a whole host of riotous tattoos, Serge
is supposed to scare the hell out of her. But beneath his harsh
exterior, Beatrix discovers a kindred spirit who knows what it’s
like to be a misfit. Most exhilarating—and terrifying—is what he
does for a living: illegal street fighting.
There’s
nothing like the rush Serge gets from the intense athleticism and
brutal glory of combat—though his chemistry with Beatrix comes
close. Slowly at first, he introduces her to his world, where he
lives by instinct, passion, and desire. He even helps her out with
her equally traumatized brother. But when Serge gets in too deep with
the wrong people, he ends up paying in blood. And suddenly, just as
Beatrix has been drawn into Serge’s perfectly sculpted arms, she’s
thrown once and for all into the fight of his life.
Excerpt
“What
you doing here, girl?”
I
don’t want to glance in the direction of the speaker. The question
is scary enough, but with that voice, too? I can hardly stand to hear
and know and see what is in front of me. The guy sounds as if he has
gravel caught in his throat, and each word has to rumble up through
the mess.
Plus,
I already sort of suspect who’s asking. There aren’t many men who
would suit a voice that deep and that rough.
But
the big guy does. In truth, I could have described what he sounds
like before he says a word. It’s just so obvious, the way it’s
obvious that a girl in patched corduroy doesn’t belong among all of
these sweaty, filthy, angry men. They know it, I know it, and now the
big guy does, too, though I’d rather he’d stayed out of it.
I
could have just talked to hammer tattoo. I can’t talk to someone
like the big guy. He’s far too much, and not just in terms of his
size. When I finally dare to glance in his direction—one hand
shielding my eyes against the glare—I come pretty close to
swallowing my own tongue.
He
has a neck tattoo. And not just any neck tattoo, either. This one
goes all the way around, as though he hadn’t been satisfied with
something small. He hadn’t been satisfied with a few minutes of
absolute agony. No, he needed a rope around his throat two inches
thick, so rough and coarse I’m tempted to offer him lotion.
If
I peel the image away, there will be welts underneath, I’m sure of
it. And even if there aren’t, even if that’s insane, the fact
still remains:
It
looks as if he’s tried to hang himself.
I
suspect, in fact, that this was the aim.
Though
really, the tattoo is the smallest part of the problem. He’s also
wearing this weird overall thing of the kind you usually see on men
who work in sewers—though I don’t think the outfit has anything
to do with his profession. I’m fairly sure you’re not allowed to
tromp around underground with both sleeves hacked off your uniform
and all the buttons undone right down to the waist, and if you are,
someone should make it illegal right now.
It
has to be some kind of health hazard. It’s certainly having a
hazardous effect on me, despite the intense effort I’m putting into
not staring. I focus on some point just to the left of his head, but
that hint of enormous chest keeps calling and calling me back. How
could it be otherwise when the better part of my life was spent in
knee-high socks with a copy of Men’s
Health under my mattress? I thought it was the filthiest
thing in the world until I got to this school and saw cocks careening
all over everybody’s computers.
It’s
a miracle that I manage to control myself at all.
And
no surprise when I don’t. I just about get the urge to ogle his
chest under control, and then I accidentally glance a little to the
right and oh, I shouldn’t have done that.
His
general face area is even crazier than the rest of him. He has this
strip of hair right down the middle of his shaved head, black and
slick and flat, and just in case that’s not wild enough, there are
these lines carved through the stubble, like racing stripes, just
above his ears. He has actual racing
stripes, so strange and bold it’s impossible to look at
anything else.
Though
God knows I try. I really do. He’s looking at me now in this
steely, half-amused sort of way, as if he just knows I can’t
resist. In a second he’ll probably crack a joke at my expense, so
acting indifferent is very important. Answering
him is very important.
And
yet I can’t seem to say a word. If I do, I will say all the wrong
ones. He will hear my dad in them, blaming him for all the world’s
ills and accusing him of turning his daughter into a whore. Or maybe
my accent will leak out due to nerves and get me the uncomfortable
attention it always does.
Hey,
Mary Poppins, he’ll tease, while I try not to die a
thousand deaths.
Author Info
Charlotte Stein has written over thirty short stories, novellas and novels, including entries in The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance and Best New Erotica 10. Her latest work, Run To You, was recently a DABWAHA finalist. When not writing deeply emotional and intensely sexy books, she can be found eating jelly turtles, watching terrible sitcoms and occasionally lusting after hunks. For more on Charlotte, visit: www.charlottestein.net
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